


Tales From The Leech Jar

by tritonvert



Series: The Ghost Leech [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-15
Updated: 2014-04-15
Packaged: 2018-01-19 12:10:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1469131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tritonvert/pseuds/tritonvert
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miscellaneous leech stories, not chronological, possibly apocryphal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“‘Home! Sweet Home!’  Isn’t it from an English opera?”

“ _Clari_ , _or The Maid of Milan._   It goes— _Mid pleasures and palaces though I may roam_ —”

"Oh!  Oh!  I know that one."  Everyone turned to look at Jean Prouvaire, who had almost certainly been asleep a moment ago.  " _A shawm from the skies seems to hulloo us there._   Celestial and pastoral, both at once.  A wonderful thought, isn’t it?”  Everyone who had turned to look at Prouvaire turned away again, shaking his head.  Bahorel patted him and then continued: 

"—As I was saying, ‘Home! Sweet Home!’  You should paint it on the jar, and then your leeches would know right from wrong.  They would know their duty.  They would remain in the jar, and not venture into the sacred territory of your bed."

"It’s not exactly sacred."

"Please don’t elaborate." 

Bossuet had to admit that the suggestion had its merits.  What the merits were, he couldn’t quite articulate, but it seemed…merit-ful.  He looked to Joly, who was staring despondently at one of the ghost leeches in question.  “What do you say?”

"Hm?  Oh.  A sign for the leech-jar?  I don’t know…for one thing they aren’t English leeches…"

"Then we shall write it in French and Hungarian as well.  Feuilly must know Hungarian. —Joly, _Jolllly_ , you are not a cheerful ghost this evening.  Not a blithe spirit, not your usual gayly haunting self.  Our good friend is here, and Bahorel, and yet you sit with your leeches and sigh.  Why these sounds of discontent, why this downcast look, why breaks the heart so dear to mine—”

Bossuet’s expansive gesture would have taken him out of his chair, if he’d been sitting in one.  Luckily Bahorel had broken that article weeks ago and replaced it with cushions, and Bossuet only fell over onto the floor.  An empty bottle or two rolled away.  Joly sighed again, and Bahorel yawned.  “Oh dear, am I on the verge of a domestic conversation?  Shall I take Prouvaire away?”

"Oh, no—no, no."  Joly drifted closer to the tangle of friends on the floor.  With him they made a quartet, and filled the room.  "Don’t go.  I was only thinking—am I right to keep these leeches?  They haunt me, but do they haunt me _willingly?_   If I took them to a marsh, would they be happier?  Would their, their spiritual fluid disperse and would they seek liberty?  Would they return to Camargue, to Hungary?  Would they—”

“ _Silence._ "  Bahorel was sitting up very straight now, and fixed Joly with a glower that Bossuet would have resented if he could quite put together the thought.  "Silence.  It is bad enough to have Jehan complaining of lions and foreign birds all day and asking whether he should keep a pet bear and why his plants die and whether Combeferre reminds me of anything at the Jardin des Plantes.  Joly.   Your leeches are happy.  Your leeches love you.  They love their home.  Entertain no further doubts about your leeches.  Paint them a little sign on their jar, give them rose-water if you must, but for the love of everything even faintly holy do not _sigh_ about them.  Or I won’t bring any more brandy.”

Bossuet had rallied his forces and was trying to interrupt Bahorel.  It was not right that Joly should be lectured in his own room.  It was not right that Bahorel should threaten to cut off the brandy.  It was not right that—

"—Oh, goddammit, Joly.  Camille is on my pillow again."  That was not right either. 

As Joly collected the stray and returned it to the leech-jar, Bossuet turned again to Bahorel.  But his lecture never left his lips: that majestic creature had joined Prouvaire in slumber upon the garret floor.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr fic prompt: "Tell me," Courfeyrac & Bossuet.

"Why would you even ask me that, Courfeyrac?"  Lesgle felt something that might almost be close to offense.  He fixed a stern eye on his friend.  His friend seemed unimpressed.

"Because the clock has passed two in the morning; because we are not such old friends that I already know the answer nor yet such new friends that I feel the need for constant delicacy in your presence; because we are comfortable from a generous dinner and a generous wine-cellar; because I drew the short straw when it was decided the other day that _someone_ should try to find out.  —Joly’s not here, is he?   He's back in your room?”

"He is not here.  Poor old Courfeyrac, unable to see ghosts.  Reduced to plain questions."

"It could have been plainer.  I didn’t ask _how_ you two…do…whatever you do.  I only asked _whether_.  Whether your friendship was what one might call particular.”

Bossuet took a long pull on his pipe, and exhaled thoughtfully.  “It is a disingenuous question.  You assume already that the answer is yes, and you _are_ asking how.  Let me say only that the persecutions of fate have rendered me inventive, and I am full of resources.”

Courfeyrac nodded once, twice.  He studied his nails.  He tried to pour another glass of wine but found the bottle empty.  He cleared his throat.  “Bossuet,” he said, “You are morally degenerate.”

They were quiet together again.  Bossuet studied his nails; he too tried to pour another glass of wine and he too found the bottle empty.  He cleared his throat.  “So, Courfeyrac.  That friend of yours, the Bonapartist.  What was his name?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes bossuet does know courfeyrac's weird friend's name, on account of having found him in the first place, he is a terrible troll


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr fic prompt: "Draw me," Joly & Bossuet

"Haunting the mirror again?  Oh, Joly, you _are_ a vain creature. —No, no, don’t sulk.”  Lesgle sighed.  The temperature in the room had dropped perceptibly.  Joly insisted that he didn’t do such things on purpose, which was probably true, but deliberate or not it was inconvenient in the middle of a chilly stretch of spring.  (Come summer, perhaps it would be practical for Bossuet to offend his ghost on a regular basis—no, no.  He put the thought away.)  “I am sorry.  I have upset you.”

"It’s nothing."

"It’s not."

"Well— _you_ can see yourself whenever you want.”

"I suppose…"  Bossuet lifted his hands, turned them around: yes, it was a fair point, but what was he to take from it?

"You can see yourself whenever you want.  You don’t—you don’t wake up in the middle of the night—or the afternoon—and wonder if you haven’t—oh.  You know.  Stopped being around."

"What? —Oh, Joly.  Joly.  It isn’t like that, is it?"  There was a silence.  "Oh, Joly."

"Well, anyway.  It’s not very important."

"If you say so."

"Did I tell you what Musichetta told me the other day about the couple on the third floor of her building?"

"God no, and I’m all ears.  Has the girl thrown him out yet?  Does he know she’s married?"

The two of them had accumulated vast wealth—why, there were four or five francs sitting on the dresser, and the next month’s rent was already paid!  A charcoal pencil could only cost so much, and they had paper enough.  To be sure, until now Lesgle had produced mostly marginalia, but as far as that went his depictions of Blondeau were highly prized among his fellow students. 

No doubt he could learn to sketch ghosts when they felt uncertain of their existence.


End file.
